It's hard to sell me on love poems, but this one....

...absolutely, utterly delectable.




Tonight
your body shook,
hurling your nightmares
back to Cambodia.

Your nightgown wisped off
into Ursula Minor.

I was left here on earth feeling alone,
paranoid about the Rapture.

Tonight
I think it is safe to say we drank too much.
Must I apologize for the volume in my slobber?
Must I apologize for the best dance moves ever?
No.

Booze is my tuition to clown college.

I swung at your purse.
It was staring at me.

We swerved home on black laughter.
bleeding from forgettable boxing.

I asked you to sleep in the shape of a trench
so that I might know shelter.

I drew the word surrender in the mist of your breath,
waving a white sheet around your body.

‘Dear, in the morning let me put on your make-up for you.
I’ll be loading your gems with mascara
then I’ll tell you the truth…’

I watched black ropes and tears ramble down your face.

Lady war paint.

A squad of tiny men rappels down those snaking lines
and you say;
“Thank you for releasing all those fuckers from my life.”

You have a daily pill case.
There are no pills inside.
It holds the ashes of people who died

…the moment they saw you.

The cinema we built was to play the greats
but we could never afford the power
so in the dark cinema
you painted pictures of Kurosawa.

I just stared at you like Orson Welles,
getting fat off your style.

You are a movie that keeps exploding.
You are Dante’s fireplace.

We were so broke,
I’d pour tap water into your mouth,
burp against your lips
so you could have champagne.

You love champagne.

Sparring in the candlelight.

Listen—
the mathematical equivalent of a woman’s beauty
is directly relational
to the amount or degree
other women hate her.

You, dear, are hated.

Your boots are a soundtrack to adultery.
Thank God your feet fall in the rhythm of loyalty.

If this kills me,
slice me julienne
uncurl my veins
and fashion yourself a noose
so I can hold you
once more.

Really, I expect only one person to respond to this.
I would've made an exclusive filter for the occasional meme but, alas, I seemed to have used up all thirty custom friend(s) filters.

Kind of says something about me, doesn't it?


As you are, everyone.




1::Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.
2:: Am I lovable?
3:: How long have you known me?
4:: When and how did we first meet?
5:: What was your first impression?
6:: Do you still think that way about me now?
7:: What do you think my weakness is?
8:: Do you think I'll get married?
9:: What makes me happy?
10:: What makes me sad?
11:: What reminds you of me?
12:: If you could give me anything what would it be?
13:: How well do you know me?
14:: When's the last time you saw me?
15:: Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't?
16:: Do you think I could kill someone?
17:: Describe me in one word.
18:: Do you think our friendship is getting stronger, weaker, or staying the same?
19:: Do you feel that you could talk to me about anything and I would listen?
20:: QUESTION REDACTED

What are your thoughts on threesomes?

It's been seven years.

This speech has possibly changed my life for the better.

The creative ingenuity and irreverent charm/whimsy of this video floors me.
I like the song too.





Link to how the video was made interview is on its YouTube page.

I've been absent in the photography scene for quite a while.
For a multitude of reasons and for reasons unknown.

That said, the following images are fortuitous accidents.
Which is, of course, how summer should be captured.
Or, rather, how it should capture you.




As always, soundtrack is provided for your viewing.



( Stalking the city )

While trying to demurely take photographs of urban festivities, I suppose whispering, "You are divine," to a complete stranger would cast an unfavorable and creepy impression.


"Hi, how you doing?" is so gosh darn unimaginative and boring though.


If any of you have a gobsmack-worthy pick-up line that you employ with maximum results, now is the time to spill the beans and help this poor lecher out.

What is it about hot weather that turns me into a closeted, sexual predator?

For Desire | Kim Addonizio

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look

Anger can be extremely powerful/empowering.

Everyone should do a video blog entry right about now.
When in motion, comedic value is so much more priceless!

Should we all confess our sins to one another we would all laugh at one another for our lack of originality. Should we all reveal our virtues we would also laugh for the same reason.


-Khalil Gibran, Sand and Foam

A very cool music video I encountered through mr_ron's LJ:





The song conveys my current situation so dreamily.

This dance is rocking my Friday.





And here is a dance that was performed in a major dance competition/performance in Beijing. The guy has only one leg and the girl lost her arm in a car accident. Rather than the emotional pull of the performance done by these remarkable dancers, I am struck by the riveting aesthetic visuals that are created as their unconventional bodies dance a picture. It's like a painting/story flourishing right before your eyes. I'm fascinated by it.





I can watch people dance forever.

Everyone knows the world is ending.
Everyone always thought so, yet
here’s the world. Where fundamentalists flick slideshows
in darkened gyms, flash endtime mess-
ages of bliss, tribulation
through the trembling bleachers: Christ will come
by satellite TV, bearing millennial weather
before plagues of false prophets and real locusts
botch the cosmic climate—which ecologists predict
is already withering from the green-
house effect as fossil fuels seal in
the sun’s heat and acid rains
give lakes the cyanotic blues.

When talk turns this way, my mother speaks in memories,
each thought a focused mote in the apocalypse’s
iridescent fizz. She is trying to restore a world
to glory, but the facts shift with each telling
of her probable gospel. Some stories have been
trinkets in my mind since childhood, yet what clings is not
how she couldn’t go near the sink
for months without tears when her mother died,
or how she feared she wouldn’t get her own
beribboned kindergarten chair, but the grief
in the skull like radium
in lead, and the visible dumb love like water
in crystal, at one with what holds it. The triumph

of worlds beyond words. Memory entices because ending is
its antonym. We’re here to learn
the earth by heart and everything is crying
mind me, mind me! Yet the brain selects and shimmers
to a hand on skin while numbing to the constant
stroke of clothes. Thoughts frame and flash
before the dark snaps back: the dress with lace tiers
she adored and the girl with one just like it,
the night she woke to see my father
walk down the drive and the second she remembered
he had died. So long as we keep chanting the words
those worlds will live, but just
so long, so long, so long. Each instant waves
through our nature and is nothing.
But in the love, the grief, under and above
the mother tongue, a permanence
hums: the steady mysterious
the coherent starlight.

This girl's photography is amazing.



We are our flyers' wings by *iNeedChemicalX on deviantART